


i didn't think (it'd be like this)

by kinneyb



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:54:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23583427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinneyb/pseuds/kinneyb
Summary: “Well,” he started, looking down at his hands—at least they had been spared for the most part. “They grabbed me when I was leaving a tavern. I was so drunk I barely knew what was happening. My fault, really.”He remembered the pain—hands wrapped around his throat, gasping for air—then, finally, darkness.When he opened his eyes, he had been in that basement. Fortunately, there were no mages—just humans. They had obviously assumed he was no threat and could be handled by humans. Fair enough. Jaskier didn’t exactly have a reputation for being a fighter.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 11
Kudos: 582





	i didn't think (it'd be like this)

**Author's Note:**

> written for one of my supporters! 
> 
> twitter: queermight / tumblr: korrmin

Jaskier stepped over the threshold and back onto the grass, rubbing his wrists, raw and bloody.

Then he heard footsteps—and Gods, please, no more—but when he looked up it was Geralt, who had stopped a few feet away.

“Oh,” he said, a little too cheerily as he tossed his dagger at his feet. “You missed the party.”

Geralt stepped forward slowly. “Jaskier, I—”

He knew he probably looked like death warmed over; he had been constrained in that basement for what was probably days. His wrists were bloody from being in chains for so long, and he tasted copper in the back of his mouth.

“I don’t understand,” Geralt said, stopping once he was right in front of him. His hands were in the air, hovering awkwardly like he didn’t know what to do. “I—I came as fast as soon as I heard,” he continued. Finally, making a decision, he grabbed Jaskier’s hands and examined his wrists. “Fuck, I have some salve. Just—follow me.”

Jaskier smiled tightly; all he wanted to do was find a nice bed and sleep for a few days.

But he followed Geralt away from the basement, hidden deep in the woods. Roach was waiting for them a few yards away. Geralt rummaged through the saddlebags and pulled out some vials, ones he had used on himself plenty of times.

“Here,” he said gruffly. “Sit.”

Jaskier sat and cringed at the pain. Geralt frowned as he settled between his legs and took his wrists again. He smeared salve—smelly and thick—all over his injuries. They were both quiet. Jaskier, for once, had nothing to say.

Then—after he was finished with his wrists—he reached up and cupped the side of Jaskier’s face, using the thumb of his other hand to apply a bit under his eyes, around the corner of his mouth.

“How?” he asked finally.

Jaskier frowned without answering.

“How did you get out on your own, Jaskier?”

He didn’t ask why they had kidnapped him. They both knew; they had wanted information on Geralt, like always. Jaskier shifted on the rock, cringing again.

“Really want to know?” he asked, “Because it’s not pretty.”

Geralt sat back on his legs, finished. “I do,” he said, though he looked unsure of himself.

Jaskier had never seen him look so unsure of himself, like he was afraid of the answer but needed to know anyway. He understood that feeling well enough. “Well,” he started, looking down at his hands—at least they had been spared for the most part. “They grabbed me when I was leaving a tavern. I was so drunk I barely knew what was happening. My fault, really.”

He remembered the pain—hands wrapped around his throat, gasping for air—then, finally, darkness.

When he opened his eyes, he had been in that basement. Fortunately, there were no mages—just humans. They had obviously assumed he was no threat and could be handled by humans. Fair enough. Jaskier didn’t exactly have a reputation for being a fighter.

_One of the men—dressed in armor with a sword on his hip—stepped forward._

_“You know what we want,” he said simply._

_Jaskier smiled slightly, “I’m afraid I really don’t.”_

_“Do not play coy,” he replied sharply. “You will regret it.”_

_Jaskier knew he would, but he didn’t have many other options. Betraying Geralt wasn’t an option, never had been. He would rather die than betray his oldest and dearest friend. The man he loved—secretly, of course. He had never told Geralt all that in so many words._

_“Sad to say,” he replied, chains clinking as he shifted on his feet, “this is all a waste of time, darling.”_

_The other man in the room—younger, helmet off—stepped forward. “Why do you say that? We all know who you are, there’s no denying that; you are the bard who travels with him, who’s befriended him. You must know valuable information.”_

_Jaskier smiled again, “Oh, I do,” he said, truthfully, “but I will never tell you anything you want to hear.”_

_“Like I said—” the older man again, “—you will regret that.”_

_Jaskier shrugged. He wondered briefly if he still had his dagger, the one he had been gifted by Geralt, that he kept tucked away in his right boot. Probably not; they were too smart for that._

_“Probably,” he agreed brightly. He had learned, long ago, not to show fear—advice given by Geralt, actually. Never give your enemy the satisfaction_ _._

_After that, he had been tortured for days on end; beaten with the hilt of swords, bare hands, kicked and stomped on. Jaskier was lucky he hadn’t died from eternal injuries, really._

_But he was proud of himself._

_Not once, not even for a second, did he waver—each day he had opened his eyes when they entered the cell and said, “Back for more, fuckers?”_

_They hated that, of course. And it wasn’t just the two men he had mad the first day; the men were rotated daily._

_Jaskier had no doubt in his mind that if Geralt knew what was happening, he would save him. They had grown closer over the years—they were friends now, close friends—but there was a problem: he obviously didn’t know what was happening and there was no telling when—or if—he would. Jaskier would likely be dead by then. He could see these men losing their patience._

_He overheard them talking about Fringilla once or twice; obviously the witch of_ _Nilfgaard_ _._

_He was running out of time—he had no chance of survival if they called her in. He needed to do something, and fast._

_Overnight, he conjured a plan. See, Jaskier was good at reading others. It was a talent that was often overlooked, but could be just as powerful as magic._

_He knew who the weakest link of the men were—it was the man, the young man, that had greeted him his first day in the basement. He never tortured Jaskier with his own hands, didn’t even enjoy watching like the others. He always looked away when they did it._

_And when he would feed Jaskier—because they were taking no chances—there would be regret in his eyes._

_They had promised Jaskier he would feel regret, but no one had told this young man he might feel it, too._

_Two days later, while he was feeding him, Jaskier swallowed the warm soup and said, “They’re going to kill me.”_

_“They won’t,” he replied instantly. “Not if you talk.”_

_Jaskier frowned and turned away when he offered him another spoonful, shoulders slumping._

_“You are not a murderer,” he said, turning back. “Don’t let them do this.”_

_The man sat on the chair, the only piece of furniture in the room. “Just tell them what they want to know.”_

_“I have a child,” he said, bottom lip trembling. The man looked up sharply. “She’s young, and her mother is dead, has been for years. She needs me.”_

_He slowly stood up and walked over. “You’re lying,” he said weakly._

_Jaskier stared at him, unwavering. “I am not,” he said. “Please, help me.”_

_“If I let you go,” he said, “they will know it was me.”_

_Jaskier didn’t say anything; he knew he didn’t need to. Finally, the man looked away and back again._

_“Okay,” he said. “Okay, fuck. Just—run for it, okay? Do not stop, not even for a second.”_

_Jaskier nodded quickly, and waited patiently as the man unchained him. The chains clamored to the floor. Sudden footsteps. Jaskier ran to the door._

_“Wait,” the man said and tossed him something—his dagger._

_Jaskier grabbed it, opened the door, and fucking ran. He killed seven men in total with his dagger. He knew it was all thanks to Geralt, who had taught him how to fight after he’d gifted him the dagger, saying he needed to know how to protect himself. He was fast on his feet, and mostly aimed for their necks. One man grabbed him, clawed at his stomach, but Jaskier stabbed him in the cheek and watched, shaking, as he slumped to the floor._

_After that, he had ran out of the basement with no interruptions—there had only been eight men in total, including the survivor back in his cell._

Geralt reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Jaskier, you took down _eight_ men?” he asked, slightly awed. Jaskier smiled, unable to help himself.

“Thanks to you,” he said, clearing his throat. “You taught me a lot of stuff, all those years ago. Paid off.”

Geralt squeezed his shoulder. “You dropped your dagger,” he said. “Do you want me to—?”

Jaskier shivered. “Um. Actually, I—”

He didn’t have to finish. “I understand,” he interrupted gently. “We can buy you a new one.”

“Yeah,” he said, looking down and gently rubbing his wrists. “Thanks.”

He never wanted to hold that dagger again.

“You’re smearing the salve,” he said with a hint of amusement.

Jaskier startled, “Oh, sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he said. “There’s plenty.”

For a moment they sat together, both quiet. Eventually Geralt stood up and rolled his bedroll out on the ground. Jaskier did not have own bedroll with him—for obvious reasons. “Sorry it’s not a proper bed,” he apologized as Jaskier sat down.

Geralt lingered on his feet, hovering awkwardly.

Jaskier pursed his lips for a moment, “Can you—I don’t know.” He looked almost shy. “I—I don’t want to be alone,” he admitted quietly.

“Oh.” Geralt cleared his throat and sat down. “Yeah, of course.”

Jaskier rubbed his knees; they hurt, like most of everything else on his body at the current moment.

“Here,” he said roughly. “Let me.”

Jaskier blinked, watching silently as Geralt took his legs in his lap and rubbed them. His heart blossomed with adoration and fondness for the other man. “I—I feel bad,” he said, looking up at the sky. The sun was low in the sky. “It’s stupid, right? I mean, _they_ kidnapped _me_ and yet I can’t stop—feeling guilty, like I did something wrong.”

“You are not a killer, Jaskier,” he said. “That’s all that means. You were simply defending yourself.”

Jaskier smiled slightly. “I should feel, like, _proud_ or something. I mean, one bard against how many knights? That’s—unheard of, probably.” He barely realized he was crying until he felt a thumb on his cheek, gently brushing away a few tears. “I didn’t enjoy that, Geralt,” he continued, quiet and rough. “I never want to have to do that again.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, “that I didn’t get there fast enough—that you had to do that.”

Jaskier laughed softly, wetly. “Don’t,” he said. “I knew you would come as soon as you heard.”

Geralt rubbed at his knees with the experience of a man who had experienced similar pain of his own. Jaskier sighed, eyelashes fluttering. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” he said, fingers stilling as he looked up at his face, “for years.”

“Oh.” Jaskier smiled, the barest hint of teeth. “Well, here I am.”

Geralt nodded curtly. “Maybe we should stop parting ways, like we do.”

Jaskier stared at him, not understanding at first. “What do you mean?”

“Perhaps we should travel together _without_ parting ways,” he said, clearing his throat.

Jaskier blinked—once, twice. “That’s, like, basically a marriage proposal, coming from _you_.”

Geralt barked out a laugh that surprised even himself and went back to massaging his knees, if only because he needed something to do. “I just think it’d be better,” he said, “if we didn’t have to worry about each other.”

“You worry about me?” he asked, just to be a brat.

Geralt rolled his eyes, “I worry about you often, Jaskier,” he said, a little too honest.

Jaskier sucked his bottom lip between his teeth and reached out, placing a hand on Geralt’s arm. They looked at each other for a long, silent moment. “I’ve wanted to do that,” he said, “for years.” He never wanted to part ways with Geralt, but in the beginning it had seemed like the only option. Geralt always seemed pleased to have a break from him.

But perhaps things had been changing in more ways than one, and not just for him.

“Okay,” Geralt said, rough with emotion that he cleared away. “Well. I guess that’s decided, then.”

Jaskier smiled, mostly to himself, and tilted his head back as Geralt continued rubbing away the pain.


End file.
